


What Not to Wear

by mrstater



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Porn Battle, Porn With Plot, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 09:16:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrstater/pseuds/mrstater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Lynesse doesn't know what to wear to meet her new husband's family, Jorah proves more knowledgeable about what not to wear. Though when it comes to accessorizing, he's got rather a lot to learn… [pre-canon]</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Not to Wear

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the GameofShips porn battle, for the prompts home, newlyweds, and peacock feathers.

"The captain says we'll make harbor within the hour!"   
  
The cabin door thumped against the paneled wall as Jorah pushed it open with rather too much enthusiasm, though his buoyant mood promptly took a turn and he halted partway through the door, his broad shoulders stooped beneath the low frame, as his eyes were met with a sight that looked as if a squall had passed through the tiny space. Every cupboard and locker and trunk seemed to be open, their belongings--well, his wife's belongings--strewn about the table and chairs and bed and floor.   
  
On the rough-hewn floor in the midst of all the gowns and stockings and jewels and gods only knew what else, knelt Lynesse. She was clad only in her smallclothes--which, in fairness, was as much clothing as she'd worn for most of the fortnight's voyage from Lannisport, having spent most of it in the narrow bunk, with him--but that didn't stop Jorah from shouldering the door closed behind him, straightening to full height, and stepping into the room and straightening to full height, knitting his brows together in consternation and confusion as he looked down at her and said, "Lynesse, you were supposed to be _packing_."  
  
He almost didn't recognize the eyes she lifted to him, so dark and stormy they were when hitherto they had been bright and blue as a midsummer's sky, her gaze lightening and warming him more than any sun. Jorah realized, with some surprise, that this was the first time he'd seen his young bride frown, and he silently cursed himself for not keeping her in a state of wedding bliss for the _entirety_ of their journey home. At once he went down on his knees before her, prepared to placate for the wrong he'd done her--whatever it was--but Lynesse had already invoked a tempest befitting the goddess he'd thought her the first moment he saw her in the tourney stands.  
  
"I cannot pack until I have dressed," she said through her teeth. "And I cannot dress until I knew what I am to wear. And I cannot know what I am to wear if I cannot see what clothes I have because they are all packed away."  
  
Jorah didn't see why not, but, wisely, he said, "I suppose not."  
  
Less wisely, however, as he looked around at the mess, he asked, "Is this always your way when you dress?"   
  
He tried to imagine the scene transferred to his bedchamber at home. While a more feminine touch pleased him after lonely years as a widower, especially one that involved his young bride in a state of undress, he found he did not much like the idea of not being able to see the bear rug, or of having to clear her things off his chair and writing desk. The women who cleaned his chambers remarked on his being a tidy man, and though he had attributed this to his meager funds limiting the number of belongings he had to clutter a room, he saw now that he did possess a preference for order.   
  
Lynesse huffed, her breasts heaving beneath her fine cotton shift and pushed into more prominent view as she crossed her arms beneath them. Somehow, the posture struck Jorah as imperious even though she is a slender woman, scarcely out of her girlhood, sitting half-clad on the floor surrounded by heaps of clothing.   
  
"I'm not _always_ dressing to be presented as the new Lady Mormont of Bear Island, am I? And I have been used to having a maid assist me in these matters."  
  
She let out another deep, slow breath, her shoulders sagging with it, as if some of her haughtiness had gone out of her with the air. Her elegant hands, which had never known a day's labor and worked such pleasure over her husband's body this fortnight, went up to clutch fistfuls of the fair hair that spilled over her shoulders.   
  
"I don't even know how I will manage to make my hair fit to be seen," she said, quietly, a hint of a quaver in her voice.   
  
Even Jorah wasn't so out of his depth in regard to female vanity as not to appreciate where Lynesse was coming from as he observed her abundant hair. It had made him think of a halo of gold when he'd first beheld it styled in an elaborate Southron coiffure, but would now be more aptly described as resembling a mermaid's locks, tossed about on the waves like a matted net of seaweed. And while the latter was a romantic and charming image, it was also inelegant. Nevertheless, he couldn't stop the grin from tugging at his lips as he reached out to run his fingers through the soft blonde strands--a gesture which, no doubt, was partially responsible for the current state of Lynesse's hair, allowing the heel of his hand to linger against her cheek.   
  
"You don't have to impress my people," he said. "I mean--you will. How could you not?" His eyes swept over her, and once again he felt a strong urge to pinch himself, so he could be sure he these two weeks hadn't all been a dream that this lady had condescended to marry him. He leaned his forehead against hers, his fingers weaving through her hair till he cradled the back of her head in his hand. "No one on Bear Island has ever seen a woman quite like you."  
  
As he kissed her, his thoughts turned to the carving on the gate of his keep, of the woman wrapped in bearskin, a battleaxe in her hand and a babe at her breast. While Jorah could hardly envision his fair lady wielding a weapon like Aunt Maege and his young female cousins, Lynesse was fierce in her own right.   
  
And gods be good, it would not be too long a wait before she suckled the next Lord Mormont. A prettier Mormont than any that had come before, if the gods were especially good.   
  
Chuckling, he broke the kiss and turned to rifle through the stacks of Lynesse's clothing. "You wouldn't have any fur, would you? Preferably bearskin?"  
  
"Fur?" Lynesse echoed. "In Oldtown? I'd die of heatstroke. Though I do _adore_ fur--I always thought it would be very fine to be feasted by the Starks of Winterfell, so I could wear a lovely fur-trimmed cloak."   
  
"Lord and Lady Stark may well feast us someday," Jorah replied, only half-listening his wife's chatter as he fast came to the conclusion that very little of Lynesse's clothing, pleasing though it was to the eye, suited the role she would fill as the Lady of Bear Island. "We'll have to have some new clothes made for you once we're settled at home. Your Myrish lace and Norvosi silks will do little to keep you warm come winter." His brow furrowed as he picked up something--a hair ornament? a fan?--made of peacock plumes.   
  
He had a slight suspicion that Lynesse wasn't quite picturing plainspun woolen dresses and cloaks when she clapped her hands together and said with glee, "Oh _may_ I have a fur cloak? I'd look as beautiful and fierce as Queen Cersei in the white pelt of an ice bear, wouldn't I?"  
  
"Would that my coffers were as full as the queen's father Lord Tywin's," Jorah said with a gruff chuckle. Then, hearing Lynesse's sigh, he looked up, at once stricken with guilt at _her_ stricken expression. "I only meant that ice bears rarely wander as far south as Bear Island. Perhaps one of my lord father's rangers will see one north of the wall and send the pelt to us."   
  
How the Old Bear would snort at the idea of the Night's Watch providing a lady's fine trappings; Lynesse herself looked scarcely more impressed. Jorah returned his attention to the clothes around them, grateful for the excuse to move away from her when he spied a familiar garment draped across the bunk.   
  
"What about your bride's cloak?" he suggested, shaking out the wrinkles as he unfurled it, the green hue deep as the forests back home, the black bear of House Mormont rampant on the back. Jorah could not help but smile at the memory of how his chest had swelled near to bursting with pride and love as he draped it over her shoulders in the sept of Lannisport. Another part of him swelled now as he watched Lynesse rise, her shift revealing a fair expanse of long slender calf as she picked a path around the clothes, for a closer inspection of the cloak.   
  
But his happiness faltered as she ran a tapered fingertip along the hem, tucking in her cheeks and regarding it from beneath the arch of a carefully groomed eyebrow. For the first time it occurred to him that a Hightower of Oldtown likely expected a cloak of velvet or other costly fabric, embroidered with thread of silver.   
  
"Only it would suit the occasion of being presented as the new Lady Mormont," he mumbled.   
  
"Of course it would," Lynesse said, and Jorah exhaled with relief as her hand left the cloak to touch his cheek affectionately instead, though the smile she gave him was uncertain. "But still I must choose something to wear under it, and I don't know what I have that will compliments green and black--"  
  
"Must you?" Jorah interrupted, his mind having stopped at the part about her wearing something under her cloak. His eyes dropped to sweep her body in the thin shift, through which her dark pert nipples were clearly visible. He tugged at the cord at her neckline, untying it for a better glimpse of her breasts. "I rather like the thought of you wearing _only_ a cloak, with nothing at all underneath."  
  
"I know _you_ do," Lynesse said, her fingers finding their way into his thinning hair, nails raking his scalp as he bent to kiss the skin he'd revealed. "Your lady aunt and your cousins, however…"   
  
She groaned as he pushed the shift down off her shoulders, her hands momentarily leaving his head so she could slip her arms from the cap sleeves, and took one breast in his mouth, teasing her nipple with his tongue. As he worshiped her breasts with his kisses, he began to work her shift down over her hips.   
  
"Jorah," she panted, "I thought I was supposed to be putting clothes _on_. And _away_." As she spoke she stepped out of her shift and kicked it aside to join the other clothes littering the cabin floor, while her fingers worked to unlace his leather jerkin.   
  
"We're Lord and Lady Mormont," Jorah said as he shrugged out of the jerkin and then peeled off his shirt. He gritted his teeth as she set to work on his breeches, making his hardened cock press even more insistently against them before she could loosen the laces. "We can send someone to collect our things for us."   
  
He kicked off his boots, and when he bent to take down his trousers, he retrieved the cloak. Straightening up again, he leaned in to claim his wife's lips with his own, draping it about her shoulders as drew her into him.   
  
"I meant it, about liking you _only_ in a cloak," Jorah murmured as he lowered her onto the bed and straddled her, caging her with his arms, hands pressing into the lumpy down-filled mattress on either side of her head. "Though if you're looking for something that compliments green and black…" Glimpsing a bright burst of color out the corner of his eye, he held his weight on one arm while he stretched the other over the edge of the bunk to grab the thing off the floor. "…perhaps you might carry this?"  
  
Lynesse goggled up at him as he sat back, knees on either side of her hips, and waved the thing with the peacock feathers in front of her face.   
  
"What is this for, anyway?" he asked.   
  
Her eyebrows arched, and her lips curved in the smile that had prompted him to ask Lord Leyton if he could wed his youngest daughter. "What _isn't_ it for?"   
  
She prized it from Jorah's fingers and teased the blue and green tufts down his neck…over his chest…along the thin trail of hair that led from his navel to the coarser patch even further down, to--He sucked in his stomach, and Lynesse's grin deepened.   
  
"Show me," he more grunted than spoke.   
  
"How long do we have till we make harbor?"  
  
"Long enough," Jorah replied, and then he was silent--or at least the sounds that came from his mouth were not words--for he was quite, happily, out of his depth in matters of feminine vanity.


End file.
